Gordita, or «What is real food?»

Taco Bell gorditas are real, just not traditional

(This post was published originally on Everything2)

Bozon writes (emphasis mine):

Whatever food product you get from Taco Bell which may be called a gordita is not really a gordita.

No, no, no. Let’s go back.

In mathematics the notions of «real number» and «imaginary number» confuse people into thinking the former is somehow more tangible than the latter. This is one of the most unfortunate cases of technical terminology clashing with everyday language. So most mathematicians will tell you there’s two things, one of which is named «The set of Real Numbers» and the other is named «The set of Imaginary Numbers», but in colloquial use, both are equally real—or equally imaginary, if you prefer.

Let’s restate that: no matter how you define something to be «real» or «not-real», both Real numbers and Imaginary numbers will surely fall in the same category. The only exception is the mathematical definition, which isn’t contested at all.1

I’ve never been to a Taco Bell, but let’s imagine I do, for the sake of experiment. I ask the cashier for a gordita, what is most likely the next step? I imagine they will relay the order to the kitchen, tell me how much I owe for the food, take my payment and give me a gordita.

At no point in this interaction we need to define what a gordita is. Despite being a non-English word, it’s sufficiently used among the English-speaking population of America to be understood, even if we have differences in pronunciation. It’s an item on Taco Bell’s menu so that I can easily communicate what I want and they can easily give me that. I am given a tangible group of atoms that I can see, touch and taste.

I am given something that exists, by most any definition of existence. Hence, the gordita I get at Taco Bell is a real gordita and not a product of my imagination. The gordita I get is a real gordita, and not a fever dream, nor an imagination of physically impossible things. Taco Bell gorditas are real.


What Taco Bell gorditas are not is traditional.

Taco Bell prepares food in a certain way, for a certain public, with certain ingredients and with certain standards. As a franchised restaurant, they are expected to have a uniform menu across all their stores so that customers in one location can expect almost the same product no matter where they are.

Taco Bell—like all other franchised establishments—can achieve this only through a precise way of cooking their meals, often written down in manuals so that most anyone who reads them can achieve more or less the same result. This also requires very regular ingredients across stores, and so they need to preprocess some of them to ensure a regular quality.

And regular quality is what they need if they need to comply with government regulations, regarding food safety, pricing and health.2 Franchised restaurants are supposed to be a business in good standing with the authorities, lest they incur penalties from both the legal side and the business side.

Taco Bell customers, then, are free to go and ask for a gordita if that’s what they desire. I doubt there’s many customers who eat Taco Bell gorditas if they don’t actually like them.3 Their particular combination of ingredients must be appealing to some, or else they wouldn’t sell it for years and years.

None of the millions of people who have eaten a Taco Bell gordita have been handed a platonic thought. They might have received a raw gordita, a spoiled gordita, a cold gordita or a smaller-than-standard gordita. But all of them received a real gordita.


What Taco Bell gorditas are not is traditional, and by this I mean only that they have evolved quite a bit from their origin. That is a highly subjective sentence.

What do I mean with «evolved»? Well, it means they have changed in form, ingredients and preparation. I use the word «evolution» and not «deviation» because I don’t mean to imply an evolved food is somehow worse or inferior. I also use «evolution» in much the same way a biologist would, just to indicate adaptation to a new environment and not necessarily being better than its ancestry.

What do I mean with «their origin»? This one is even trickier, because it could imply there’s a single origin to gorditas, when there is not. Or maybe there is, but not in the way most would think. Here in (central) Mexico we have something called gorditas, but it’s not a single «standard» thing. Moreover, some things that we could say are «traditional» gorditas are themselves evolved from their origin!4

So, what then is a «traditional» gordita?


It’s easy to think of food as a single more-or-less the same thing. In our hyper-connected world, we can see a picture taken on the other side of the world, depicting food we’ve never seen, made with ingredients we’ve never heard of and accompanied with a recipe on how to make them.

Lots of food have thus traveled the world and cemented themselves in our communal conscience. We, the internet-connected people can conceive of a latte even if we don’t drink coffee, and our individual mental images are very similar to one another. These days, whenever a new dish is discovered—or rediscovered—it can go around the world in a matter of hours. The 2020 phenomenon of the «Dalgona coffee» is a good example: something that had existed for decades was somehow rediscovered, reimagined, reengineered, remixed and replicated around the world in a few weeks.

But that is a recent phenomenon. Having a more-or-less consistent recipe for a dish is something new. For most of history, food was very much restricted by geography, available ingredients and seasonality. Two people in the same city could make the same dish and it would still come out differently, subjected to the quality of ingredients, differences in cooking implements, and personal experience. There was no knob to turn down your fire, the most you could do was move coals around or move your kitchenware away from—or towards—the hottest part of the fire.

Food then evolved in a slower way: day by day, person by person, neighborhood by neighborhood. Just like language, one would see immensely long chains of small changes that add up to large variations in the extremes. But locally there was little variation: two vendors in the same street would sell something—say, gorditas—with virtually no differences between them.

When we talk about traditional gorditas—or traditional food in general—we tend to think of food that has more or less followed that pattern and hasn’t changed «a lot» in «long periods of time». We tend to think of non-traditional food as those that have evolved rapidly, adapted to very different environments than the ones in the past. We think of traditional food as the ones that follow the pre-industrial constraints. All of these are valid views and merit discussion.

But talking about food as being «real» or «not real» is missing the point entirely. Moreover, is casting this cultural evolution and their many children as a simplistic or non-existent process, claiming that some of its members are somehow more worthy or inherently better than others.

Food is real. Gorditas might be more similar to what is consumed in Mexico or not, but they all are real. Some gorditas have adapted to being served in another country for people who expect very similar products across several stores. Some gorditas have adapted to serving people next to a metro station.

All of them are real. you might like one better than the other, you might argue one is a product of rampant capitalism and the other follows the noble and ancient art of cooking for others. You might have a deeper connection to one or the other, but that has nothing to do with whether they are inherently better or worse.

Please, be careful not to conflate tradition with moral superiority. Traditional food is amoral: there’s no inherent good to desire in traditional food, nor inherent evil to denounce in nontraditional food.

Gorditas might be closer or farther from some origin. But they all are real.


A gordita (pl. gorditas) is a traditional food in Mexico, generally made out of a ball of corn-based dough (masa) with some kind of ingredient inside it, flattened and cooked.

This immensely vague description might not be very helpful, and that is because—you guessed it—there’s no single thing that we call «gordita» across this country, much less the rest of the world.

Are gorditas hand-patted? Most times, but not always.

Are gorditas smaller than standard corn tortillas? Some are, some are not and let’s not forget that tortillas have no standard size.5

Are gorditas somewhere between 1/4–3/8 in thick? Some are, some are not.

Are gorditas deep-fried? Some are, some are griddled without oil, some have incorporated lard in the dough and so are close to being pan-fried and some are baked.

Are gorditas sliced to be filled? Some are, some have nothing but corn inside, some are topped, and some should never be sliced and must be eaten with great care to avoid spilling, like these cajeta-filled ones (by the way, gorditas aren’t always a salty dish, some can be sweet).


  1. And even so, it’s tricky. Generally speaking, R and I are defined as two sets, but it’s not that easy to say they’re completely separate things.↩︎

  2. In theory, at least. Whether they actually do comply with these regulations is another matter entirely.↩︎

  3. Of course, not everyone has food safety. Some people do eat what they can out of necessity rather than personal choice. This is not the case I’m talking about today.↩︎

  4. For instance, the «most traditional» gorditas have pork or longaniza inside, but none of those ingredients are native to this land.↩︎

  5. Of course, tortilla-making machines do have a standard size. But tortillas in general do not.↩︎

What kind of books do you keep in your desk?

My books were part of my identity as much as my clothes. Suddenly, what I read became important—not to everyone of course, but important as an extension of my self.

Years ago, I had my first «adult job» just before I completed my university degree. I moved out to a new city, started helping in whatever I could, slowly building my way up.

But as it happens with everyone, the jump to adulthood isn’t. There’s no single moment when one stops being a «child» and becomes an «adult»; there’s no certificate for it, no ceremony. The transition to adulthood is merely a spectrum of days with no clear beginning or end.

Back to my first job: I of course dragged several habits from my student days into the workplace. The most prominent in that office was that I kept a personal journal and a book in my desk at all times. The journal was —of course—disguised as the notebook all nine-to-fivers tend to keep to organize their nine-to-five days and so no one cared much about it. The book stuck out like a sore thumb.

All of my coworkers were older than me by a full decade at least. Most of them with long-term partnerships, spouses, kids and at least one divorce settlement in progress. Of course, all of them drove cars to and from work. I, on the other hand still had time to read on my commute because I had the luxury of not having to worry about looking at the road while on commute.[^1] This was when «smartphones» were only becoming a thing, the business types all had Blackberries and Twitter was still in its infancy. What was one to do during an hour-long commute?

The obvious answer was to either do nothing or to try and get distracted with whatever was at hand, and more often than not that meant a book or newspaper.[^2] I continued the routine I set while studying at university and settled for keeping a book on my person at all times.

The morning bus passengers really care only for one thing: to get to work on time. Anything that hinders that is a nuisance. Anything that doesn’t can get a pass. The queue at 7:45 AM cares not for what a stranger is reading, but for you to hurry up, pay and get in the car ASAP. The office, unfortunately, is full of people you meet up every day.

After a while, my reading habit became part of my office identity. No one else had a book on their desks, no one ever talked about books. I don’t mean this as judgment of my coworkers: just as I was the bookish one there was a cinephile, a party animal, a hopeless romantic… we all presented part of ourselves to the group and those slices of life became our identities. In every human group we are all seen as a fraction of our total selves, and this identity is often defined by others: what they see and what they perceive of us.

So I became the reader, the bookish one. Reading became part of who I was in their eyes. My books were part of my identity as much as my clothes. Suddenly, what I read became important—not to everyone of course, but important as an extension of my self.

This was a subtle but important shift, one that I didn’t realize until someone told me they were surprised: «I didn’t think you would read that».


Reading is political. But so is eating, singing and pretty much everything that involves other people. What books I buy, which authors I read, where and when I buy books, which quotes I share and where… It’s useless to argue for «keeping politics out of my [blank]» because more often than not these choices are tied to a social and economical context. Buying the latest bestseller at the trendy library is not the same as buying second hand books from the pop-and-mom library around the corner.

What we read is informed and influenced by our political compass, academic background, taste in fiction and non-fiction, familial values and preferences, friendships, religious and spiritual beliefs, morals, ideals, availability of titles and a very long et cetera.


This person was surprised because they thought I was «smart enough to not believe those lies». They proceeded to recommend me another book, highly praised by a news anchor or some other media personality. They assured me it was truthful. They told me they hadn’t yet read it.

I smiled back and told them I’d consider it. Fortunately for me, this person left the company shortly after and I never had to explain why I would never even buy that book, let alone read it. Unfortunately for me, it wasn’t the last time I was suggested other books on the basis that I was reading something «wrong».

I haven’t worked in a traditional company since. Everywhere I’ve worked people tend to see my books as my own business, while also acknowledging me as a fellow reader. We’ve been able to discuss books at length, without moral judgment on what exactly we’re reading and why. That was the only time I had a «normal» job, and it was the only time I’ve been judged by my reading material.

It might be a coincidence. I hope it was a coincidence.

In any case, it was a good lesson. What other people think of you and your books says more about them than about you. There was a time when I’d hide my books. Now I realize that most times no one cares, and anyone who wishes to discuss books will—generally speaking—be transparent to their intent. They can come and inquire on genres and taste and favorite quotes. A welcome conversation.

They could come judging me on what kind of books are on my desk. In that case I’ll smile and carry on.

[^1]: Some would say that it’s no luxury to share a vehicle with other people, to have to wait for a bus, to have to walk to and from bus stops. That of course depends entirely on what one values in life. Some would say that’s the excuse a poor person would give to justify their mediocrity and inability to pull up one’s bootstraps. I’m sure you can guess my general reply to such claims.

[^2]: Funny thing is, reading a newspaper was often the sign of someone being rude—intentionally or not —to your fellow passengers. Extending the whole, double-tabloid sheets usually means interfering in someone else’s personal space. We might have been packed like sardines in that bus, but still extending oneself was a social faux-pas.

Some of the best Final Fantasies are not called Final Fantasy

Has the (main) Final Fantasy series had some problems in development, mechanics, feel, game-y feeling? Yes it has, but the big , capital-T Trouble is twofold

That’s the truth, sorry, I don’t make the rules.

Has the (main) Final Fantasy series had some problems in development, mechanics, feel, game-y feeling? Yes it has, but the big , capital-T Trouble is twofold:

  1. The gaming media tends to oversee the bad way more than it sees the good, and
  2. Some of the best Final Fantasies of the last decade have not had the title “Final Fantasy” and have not been on consoles.

Here’s an old joke running in some circles. If you ask “What is your favorite Final Fantasy game?” the only correct answer is, of course, «Chrono Trigger». And lots of people would say, that’s funny because it’s true.

Seriously, look at it. Many of the best ideas of JRPGs of the time went to Chrono Trigger and not to FF VI (the one released in North America as Final Fantasy III). The time travel, the music, the design, the characters, the many nooks and crannies that are invisible unless you go look for them, the multiple endings… I’m not saying Final Fantasy VI is a bad game—it has a killer story and interesting cast—but I’m saying that the best video game ideas went to Chrono Trigger instead. Why?

Today, over 20 years after its release, its universally hailed as one of the best RPGs of all the time, and it’s often spoken about having a Dream Team of composers, designers and programmers. But also, when I look at it I’m tempted to wonder if such a concentration of talent and ideas went to it and not a mainline FF title because Squaresoft was afraid to experiment so boldly in its flagship title. Was it the case that Squaresoft didn’t want to mar its golden boy series with strange ideas unless they had been proven to be liked by the public?

I don’t know the answer.

But if we accept this narrative1 we can see this pattern repeating in later releases by Square Enix.

Take the Nintendo DS. You might remember this game called «The World Ends With You» and it’s a fantastic game. Without spoiling too much, the game features interesting questions about the self and and the relationship of one with the rest of the world, the values of we hold dear, the existential questions posed by a modern unified experience of life… pair that with gameplay that truly made use of the DS technical features (namely: having two screens, having wireless communication with other DSs, a pressure-sensitive touchscreen, an internal real-life clock…) and you get an experience so great that surpasses its clunky and sometimes difficult gameplay. Again, it’s one of the best RPGs of its generation and its system, but it’s not a Final Fantasy game

What about “the reboot”? There was «FF: the Four Heroes of Light» which promised to be a soft reboot, a “return to the roots” kind of game and in many ways it worked! It’s a simple story and a simple system, while the general elements are still very Final Fantasy-esque, the overall feeling was back to its roots of exploring, of figuring out the best combinations of jobs and of thinking less on super complicated mechanics. A good success, if you ask me, and it’s not a main series Final Fantasy game.

Then comes one of the best JRPGs of the Nintendo 3DS, a game called «Bravely Default». While it lost some of the “gimmicks” of TWEWY, it gained a lot on mechanics and story. Without spoiling too much, Bravely Default brings back a solid job system, paired with a turn-manipulating mechanic2 and the story is… well, it brings back some of the ideas of Chrono Trigger wile adding some good twists of its own.3 While this all is happening, the theme also strangely returns to Final Fantasy’s first, original “Dungeons-&-Dragons-esque” setting of four heroes out to save the world. Overall a solid game, solid story, interesting new ideas and mechanics. And it’s not a main series Final Fantasy. See where I’m going with this?


This is why I don’t want to say I’m a big fan of Final Fantasy without the superscript asterisk * and a footnote saying what I mean by that. I know that the FF series suffers from lots of bloat and innovation in the latest games has come sadly a bit too late. Why not incorporate these fantastic experimental features in the mainline series? Why must these interesting experiments come only to the handheld and later to the untarnished main series?

Oh, right: the fans.

The ones who correctly complained that FF XIII was a story corridor, but also missed the boat on the fantastic idea that is changing your party strategy on the fly, during combat. It’s the fans that demand good games but nothing that strays too far from the “true FF experience”. The ones that demand less micromanaging but complain about gambits in FF XII. The ones that demand better storylines but complain that FF X-2 is merely a dress-up game and miss the hard existential questions it poses. The fans that demand innovation and also push the company to beat the zombie horse that is FF VII because of its edgelord protagonist and its edgelord villain and its multiple suitors that like the hero despite him being a doormat to them at best and an asshole at worst. The fans that will buy anything labeled FF VII, even a re-re-release of the game, coming in parts and with Sephiroth hacked in to avoid a collective lawsuit from the fans who would complain about their middle school handle namesake not being in the game.

Yes, Square Enix has botched many things about its series, but innovation in game design has fortunately not left the company despite the decades. The problem is that some of the best ideas are not in the main series and I believe we the fans are partly responsible for it. Yes, it’s the developers who make these games but they respond to the higher ups who in turn respond to whatever sells.

And bright, new, exciting ideas in a game titled “Final Fantasy” don’t seem to sell as well as they should. They are relegated to “minor titles” and spinoffs. I’ve used only a few examples, but the trend seems to hold across console generations, across systems, across years. Then and only then are they reused in the golden idol that we collectively call “Mainline Final Fantasy Title”.

It’s time to stop that, but I don’t hold high hopes.


Originally published at Everything2


  1. And mind you, this is a “narrative” and not a real account of the events.↩︎

  2. Generally speaking: you can “Brave” and take up to three extra turns, with the caveat that you’ll spend the next round(s) recovering. Alternatively, you can “Default” and save this action for a later turn. Lots of the game mechanics revolve around this idea of taking turns early or saving them for later.↩︎

  3. mind you, it has some of the ideas of CT, but it’s not the same overall plot. I cannot say more without risking spoiling the plot.↩︎

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